


a playlist containing songs by LMFAO

by thescrewtapedemos



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Humor, M/M, Pining, Team as Family, excessive usage of celine dion and beverages that come in buckets as plot devices, the real hero of this story is matt martin’s caring nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 12:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15819018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescrewtapedemos/pseuds/thescrewtapedemos
Summary: “YousuckedMartin’sdick?” Patty demands shrilly. Mitch scowls.“I said I put my face on his dick, not his dick in my mouth,” he retorts. “Marty was wearing pants and shit. Boxers.”





	a playlist containing songs by LMFAO

**Author's Note:**

> what i said: i should get into something. maybe i'll listen to bjork 
> 
> what i did: proceed to fall down a delirious maple leafs hole and have an emotion about matt martin about six months too late. 
> 
> as you do
> 
>  
> 
> BIG THANK YOU TO MOLIVER who allowed me to talk about the leafs for a week and then beta’d this. recognize a real one. 
> 
> enjoy xoxo

It's not, like, a thing. It isn't a thing. It shouldn't, like, be a thing, except it's… 

Yeah, so, sometimes it's a thing. Not a big deal of a thing. 

Barely a thing at all. 

He crawls out of the nest of blankets he's made on Auston’s couch and steals his toothbrush and toothpaste and Auston doesn't wake up even a little. Mitch snags a breakfast bar before he locks the door behind him on the way out and it's like… so like it's not _much_ of a thing. Really it's barely anything at all. 

He drives home. 

Yeah.

-/-

Marty’s texted him when he's dragged his way back out of bed again around like, probably noon. It's just checking in about gym times but Mitch whistles his way through making some shitty late breakfast.

He's been forcing Naz to teach him how to stir fry and he's not even close to actually figuring that shit out but between that and Marty lecturing him through scrambled eggs he's got a handle on a pretty dope-ass breakfast scramble.

He hits dial on Marty as he's dishing himself up. He made a little too much. 

“You want some breakfast?” he asks as soon as Marty picks up, because Marty's always good for it. “Made too much scramble.”

Marty's voice comes through fuzzy and clogged like he just woke up. Mitch is unbearably fond. 

“Didn't you crash at Matthew's last night?” he asks, nasal and like, hopelessly endearing. “Are you at his place? I'm not driving out there.”

Auston hasn't texted him yet. It's like, is he even awake yet? Not like Mitch would know. Auston is a lazy piece of shit. 

“Dude,” Mitch says, because it's not like Auston lives any farther away from Marty. 

“Mitch,” Marty says.

“Bro,” Mitch says, still _mortally_ fucking wounded. 

“I'm not gonna,” Marty repeats and there's a raspy rustling noise that Mitch clocks as Marty's stubble against his pillow, because he’s a lazy bastard and is probably still in bed despite harassing Mitch about going to the gym. He is like, a connoisseur of Marty noises. 

“I drove home, you fuckin’ dick,” Mitch says. “Come over.”

He hangs up over Marty's vague noise of assent and goes looking for bagels.

-/-

Occasionally, when they’re all dealing with a loss or feeling a little too touchy to celebrate a close OT win or whatever it is that sucks this week, they’ll hit someone’s apartment instead of go out to celebrate. It’s Mitch’s place this time, because he doesn’t have a dad there this year and his apartment is objectively dope as hell and also his neighbors are either ancient and hard of hearing or _dead_.

He’s never had a noise complaint, anyway. Even when he really deserves it. 

He doesn’t have a great selection of alcohol though, just shitty half-finished fifths from the last time this had happened - not long enough ago, frankly - and beer Freddie brought with him because he’s kickass when he’s not being a weirdo goalie. 

It’s enough to get everyone comfortable wasted so everyone can honestly get off his back. If they want something better they can feel free to bring it themselves or suck it the fuck up. 

Mitch is in the middle of a hugely important discourse on why Party Rock Anthem is the most important song of like, the _decade_ regardless of how it predates him just a little. Party rocking is eternal and he will defend the right to wear neon leopard print to the death. 

“You're a fucking tool,” Willy says but not like he actually means it. 

“Redfoo is a _king_ ,” Mitch says vehemently and sloshes what he's generously calling a margarita but is mostly just Mountain Dew and vodka on his shirt. “And, and the other one.”

“Skyblu,” Auston puts in, muffled by how his face is buried in Mitch's shoulder. 

“Kings,” Mitch repeats and pats Auston's hair without getting any of his margarita in it. 

“Are those really their names?” Freddie asks like the old and decrepit man he is. Mitch ignores the question as completely beneath his notice. 

“Song of the decade,” he insists and points with his margarita glass at Willy. “Song of the fucking _century_. You can't deny that.”

“Stronger, Kanye West,” Willy says promptly and Mitch is stunned into silence for a whole entire twenty seconds. 

“Damn,” he says, because shit.

Auston’s head rolls against his shoulder, breath suddenly hot and damp against Mitch's ear. 

“He's got ya there, Mitchy,” he mumbles and Mitch is pretty sure he feels eyelashes brush his neck. He gulps his margarita. His mouth is really dry suddenly. 

This whole thing that is _not_ a thing, not really, is getting kind of out of hand. 

“We should order a pizza,” Freddie says, because he might be a decrepit old man with no taste and also a ginger and a goalie, but he’s also kind of great sometimes.

-/-

Sometimes Auston hooks up and that's y'know, fine.

It's fine that he hooks up, because he's young and eligible and unattached and shit. He should be out there like, sowing his seed or whatever the fuck. It's normal and he keeps it pretty chill and he never really makes a big deal about it. 

So it kind of sucks that Mitch can't deal with it, like, at _all_ when it happens in front of him.

He has it on good authority - Willy and Patty and also pretty much whoever happens to be sitting next to him at the time - that he actually acts like a giant bitch. 

It's just- It's hard to remind himself his fucking annoying thing is not actually a thing when he's watching Auston sidle up to some chick with that dumb smirk on his face. It's hard not to think about how he would really prefer not to be seeing what he's seeing. Namely, Auston using his stupid face to have sex with people. 

People that aren't Mitch. Whatever. It's not a _thing_.

“Who pissed in your cheerios,” Willy asks cheerfully and thunks a beer down in front of Mitch. Mitch wraps his fist around it and stares darkly down at the ratty varnish of the table. 

“No one,” he lies, and is aware it's super obvious that he's lying. Willy graciously doesn't reply for a little bit. 

“You could hook up, y'know, “ he says after Mitch has gotten at least a third of his beer down. 

Mitch looks up and Willy is watching Auston work his dubious charm on the cute blonde girl at the bar. He's got his elbow on the bar and he's looking up at her through his lashes. Mitch hates him a little bit. 

“Dunno,” he says and keeps watching because he hates himself apparently. Auston puts his hand on her arm and Mitch takes a deep gulp of his beer. 

“I'm sure you could find someone into the like,” Willy says earnestly and gestures up and down at Mitch's everything because he's a fucking dick. Mitch snorts at him. He's not worried about whether or not he can hook up. If Auston can regularly find girls willing to overlook his forehead and the fact he has the personality of a Roomba impersonating a puppy then Mitch is sure he can find someone willing to overlook Mitch's scant minor flaws too. 

That isn't Mitch's problem, though. 

“You know that's not my scene,” he says and turns back to his beer. Everyone and their dog knows Mitch is like, a fucking romantic and shit. Hooking up and one night stands aren't really his deal. 

Willy hesitates and then knocks his shoulder against Mitch's. 

“He doesn't like, know, “ he says quietly and Mitch feels every muscle in his body lock up tight. 

Because this thing, the thing, it's not a _thing_. 

“Don't know what you're talking about,” he says and tries to fake a light tone and misses by approximately a mile. Willy shrugs anyway and drinks his beer because he's a good bro, most of the time.

-/-

So in the ongoing process of things being not, like, _things_ he kind of tries to come on to Marty. Via faceplanting on his dick because he’s drunk enough he can taste puke at the back of his throat but he can remember his ABC’s so obviously, whatever.

They'd been at a bar that'd seemed happy enough to ignore how they're famous athletes, and there had been something on the menu called the ‘Slush Bucket’. Naz had looked at him dubiously when he'd ordered it but when he'd been allowed a taste of the blue, slushy drink that'd been served to Mitch in an actual fucking bucket his expression had been at least thirty percent admiring. 

“That's actually fucking poisonous,” he'd said. 

“I know,” Mitch had said happily, and proceeded to defend his Slush Bucket viciously whenever Willy tried to sneak a straw in. Because like, suck it, Nylander. Except, don’t. Because it’s Mitch’s. Whatever. 

Auston had laughed and chugged the bucket dregs when Mitch finally had to admit he was going to throw up if he tried. And then he'd stuck his tongue out to show how blue it was, grinning all wide, and Mitch had been struck out of nowhere by the desire to put his fingers in Auston’s mouth. 

Mitch had then realized that he must really be capital-W-capital-A-capital-rest of it WASTED to be thinking about the _thing_ , and fallen out of his chair. 

So Marty had to carry him home. Which was fine and normal. And stuck around on his couch because it wasn't that late, really, and fed Mitch toast and Gatorade while Mitch whined into the cushions about wanting to barf to death. Which was also normal. 

And then Mitch had pulled his head up out of the cushions and Marty had been looking at him just like… Something. A thing. Not the like, the Thing. Just something else, affectionate or fond or something, and. 

Mitch flops face-first onto Marty’s dick, basically, which in hindsight would have worked better if his pants were off first. 

“Kid,” Marty says and levers Mitch off of his dick and back onto the couch cushions. Which okay. Yeah, but Mitch isn’t younger than him by that much. 

“Yeah,” Marty says. “Yeah, Mitchy, you kind of are.” 

He sounds… not upset but like… pained. Kind of a little sad. 

He sounds sorry for Mitch. 

The acid vomit taste at the back of his throat gets stronger. It’s kind of burning. His throat aches like he actually did get a dick in it. 

“Fuck you,” he says around the way breathing kind of sucks right now. The pained look on Marty’s face gets even worse, creased big and ugly around his eyes and at the corner of his mouth. He’s looking at Mitch like he, like, _fuck_. 

“Kiddo,” Marty says, soft. 

“ _Fuck_ you,” he says quick and vicious. “Maybe I’m a kid but I’m not some fourth-liner only in the show ‘cuz I can punch hard.” 

The pity wipes off Martin’s face quick and complete and leaves blank shock in its wake. 

Mitch takes off running before he can see what follows that.

-/-

He runs about three aimless blocks before remembering that he might be a professional athlete but he's a professional athlete that skated a whole-ass game the day before and then drunk something like fifty fluid ounces of something that came in a bucket only an hour ago. Barfing is imminent.

He stops and sits on the curb and calls a cab to Patty’s place because well, he obviously can't really go to Marty's. He's incredibly grateful that he'd been too drunk to remember to pry his wallet and phone out of his pocket. 

There's a brief moment, laying on the cold cement curb watching the cloudy sky spin above him. The cab won't be here for forever and he's not sure if Marty will ever want to talk to him again and he kind of wants to go to Auston’s house out of the blue. 

Not that he's kidding himself that Auston’ll have anything helpful to say, but like. He does anyway.

-/-

Patty is less forgiving of Mitch’s bullshit than Marty is because he is, when he’s not in the room and neither is anyone likely to rat Mitch out for saying so, the Mom to Marty’s Dad. What with the children, and the fulfilling life, and the tendency to Lysol wipe Mitch’s face when he’s getting annoying. Mitch is pretty sure Lysol is meant to be used exclusively for furniture, but not _entirely_ sure.

Which is all to say that he like loves Mitch and shit, because who wouldn’t, but he’s also really mean. 

“You did _what?_ ” Patty demands, sounding dangerous. Maybe, Mitch considers, he should have gone to like… Willy. Willy wouldn’t have been a single fucking bit of help at all but he also wouldn’t have looked at Mitch like he was considering which of Mitch’s parents to call first. 

“I put my face on Marty’s dick,” he repeats sulkily. 

“You _sucked_ Martin’s _dick?_ ” Patty demands shrilly. Mitch scowls. 

“I said I put my face on his dick, not his dick in my mouth,” he retorts. “Marty was wearing pants and shit. Boxers.” 

Patty scrubs at his face with both hands. Mitch shifts uncomfortably on the couch. 

Patty had tucked him into the guest bed without asking him anything more complicated than whether he needed a Gatorade, and then shaken him awake at the crack of dawn to hand him a bottle of water and stare him down from across the living room coffee table. 

Marty hasn't texted him. Mitch is not entirely sure what he thinks about that. 

“Give me some context here,” Patty says, muffled by how his palms are still plastered over his eyes. “Please.” 

“I put my face on his dick,” Mitch repeats, because he’s not sure what part of that Patty’s really missing. Patty’s hands drop from his face and he’s looking at Mitch like, well, like Mitch’s mom does sometimes. 

“Mitch,” Patty says. 

The fight goes out of Mitch all at once. 

“I think I fucked up,” he says. His voice comes out small. “Patty, I. I think I really fucked up.”

-/-

He heads to Auston’s place instead of his own because he’s like pretty much certain Marty’s left his house by now but he really doesn’t want to look at his couch right now. Or be alone.

They have practice in like three hours and Marty will be there and Mitch is just not sure how he’s going to deal with it. He’s pretty sure Marty won’t hit him, because Marty’s not like that, but short of that he has no idea. 

Auston opens his door, takes one look at Mitch and sighs. 

“What did you do, Marns?” he demands but he lets Mitch walk right into him and folds him into a tight, warm hug, so. It could be worse. 

He also doesn’t make him talk until Mitch is laying face down on his couch and there’s a Gatorade in easy reach even though Mitch isn’t really thirsty. Patty had made him chug a bunch of water before leaving his house even though Mitch really wasn’t that hungover. 

“I fucked up,” Mitch says. His voice comes out all wobbly but that’s muffled in the couch cushions so that’s okay at least. He turns his head to the side to see Auston hovering awkwardly by the coffee table looking extremely out of his depth. “Sit down, dipshit, you’re gonna give me a neck ache.” 

“You fuck up all the time,” Auston says charitably, not sitting down. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. It makes him look like a fucking fridge, all rectangular and stiff. Mitch rubs his cheek against the couch morosely. 

“Thanks, dude,” he says. Auston is the fucking worst. Auston shrugs. 

“You do,” he says easily. “It’s like, part of your charm or whatever.” 

“Thanks,” Mitch says, and means it a little more this time. But only a little. “But like, yeah. I fucked up big time.” 

Auston squints at him. 

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks at last, and Mitch kind of loves him for how hard he tries to make it not sound like the last thing in the world he wants to do is have a conversation about emotions. He’s the greatest. 

“Not even a fucking little bit,” he says and Auston relaxes.

-/-

Practice is a fucking nightmare.

Patty is staring at him with the biggest and most heartbreaking Disappointed Mom eyes and Auston is doing his best to stick by Mitch’s side because he’s the _best_ but he does actually need to run drills and Freddie is having some kind of goalie freakout that’s somehow completely unrelated to Mitch’s own shitshow of a life. Babs is going a kind of purple-red that looks unhealthy. Willy is the only one of them that’s acting even remotely normal. 

Marty won’t look at him. 

It’s like Mitch doesn’t even exist and by ten minutes into practice Mitch is ready to climb out of his skin. By half an hour in people are starting to notice and by an hour in Willy _and_ Zach have both zoomed by to demand what the fuck is going on. Mitch shrugs them all off and keeps his eyes on the puck. 

Everything sucks. Mitch doesn’t even score on Freddie even once, which is probably good for Freddie’s freakout but doesn’t exactly make him feel great. Marty spends the whole practice talking to Naz and Brownie and not even looking in his direction. 

Patty corners him in the showers after Mitch is finally allowed to crawl off the ice in a haze of self-pity. 

“You are going to apologize,” he says and Mitch considers whining for a hot second before he notes that there is still a hell of a lot of slightly murderous disappointment in Patty’s eyes. 

“I know,” he says instead. 

“You fucked up so badly,” Patty continues and Mitch kind of wonders what Marty had said. Patty looks even madder than when Mitch had told him what he’d done. 

“I know,” he repeats. “I know I gotta apologize I just don’t, like… I don’t know how.” 

Patty throws his actual hands in the actual air, which Mitch would chirp him for if he weren’t still a little bit in fear for his life. He looks like a grandma or some shit. He looks like a fucking mom. 

“You’ll think of something!” he says and storms off in disgust to like, go eat some oatmeal or something.

-/-

He goes back to Auston’s, with Auston, and Auston proves that he is demonstrably the best person in the universe by not asking Mitch why Mitch is sniffling a little bit for the whole car ride.

He still doesn’t ask as he lets Mitch in and makes them lunch, bitching loudly about how Mitch isn’t helping. Which is just hugely stupid because ‘making lunch’ is code for dumping a Tupperware of chicken alfredo onto two plates and hitting the reheat button on the microwave. Mitch thinks Auston can handle that himself. 

“I need to apologize to Marty for- something,” he says when Auston’s settled in slumped on the couch next to him with the plate of reheated pasta settled on his stomach and the PS4 controller dangling from one hand. 

“Did you wreck his car?” Auston asks immediately and Mitch stops with his forkful of frankly subpar pasta halfway to his mouth. 

“No, I- what? I didn’t… what the fuck?” he sputters and Auston shrugs, unbothered. Mitch stuffs the pasta in his mouth just to like, have something to do that isn’t gape at him. 

“You obviously fucked up pretty bad,” Auston says. “I dunno, it seemed reasonable.” 

“You’re such a dipshit,” Mitch says affectionately, mouth full, and knocks his elbow into Auston’s side. “I don’t think I should talk about it except, like. I don’t uh… know how to apologize?” 

Auston eats a forkful of pasta with one hand and queues up Fortnite with the other at the same time. It’s like, a little unreasonably skilled. Mitch suspects he’s practiced the maneuver because he’s secretly a deeply uncool loser nerd. 

“You say you’re sorry, usually,” he says and Mitch elbows him again, harder this time. 

“It’s gonna take more than that, I think,” he says, and struggles not to sound too dismal. He’s managed to drag himself back from the crying place in the span of a car ride, and being around Auston always helps him feel better - barring like, _special circumstances_ pertaining to things that are _not_ things - but he can feel it hovering in the offing. 

Auston spends a minute in slurping pasta contemplatively. 

“Grand gesture?” he says and shrugs. “Damn, dude, you know I don’t know shit about this shit. Wanna play some Fortnite?” 

“Fuck, yes,” Mitch says, and shovels more pasta in his mouth.

-/-

He goes to Naz for the assist because Naz is some kind of loser with a steady girlfriend or whatever and that means he must have done his fair share of apologizing and groveling, probably.

Naz laughs at him meanly but Mitch doesn’t take it personally because first of all he needs Naz’s help but also, second of all, he’s always been cooler than Naz and always will be. Not being a dick and owning his mistakes just makes him _cooler_ , actually. He’s possibly cooler than anyone on the team, except maybe Hyman. 

He’s not sure how to top the published children’s book author schtick yet. He’s working on it. 

Naz does help though, even though it does end up taking Mitch an entire afternoon to set up and costs like two hundred dollars. Mitch can afford it. He gets to break out his kickass Sharpie art game anyway, so he counts it as a rewarding activity in multiple arenas and starts contemplating how to bribe his way past Marty’s doorman without getting the cops called on him. 

Turns out the doorman just nods him through without any of the elaborate bribery foolishness Mitch had half-assedly planned out, which kind of deflates him a little but also leaves him feeling kind of hopeful. Marty hadn’t specifically screened him out. 

Mitch hopes that means something and punches in the number on the elevator. Like hell he’s taking the stairs; his load is heavy. 

He knocks on the door, which logistically has been the easiest part, because Mitch has known how to knock on doors since he was like a two-year-old conning people out of candy with his dimples. In reality, it is incredibly fucking hard and he spends like twenty minutes of his precious young life shifting his feet and staring at the doorknob. 

He keeps thinking about how less than forty-eight hours ago he could have just opened the door and walked in and hoped in a mostly insincere way that Marty wasn’t in the act of boning anyone. It’s not a productive thought. 

But the door gets knocked on and Mitch pins a winning smile to his face and he makes sure to hit the play button at the precise moment that he hears Marty scrabble around to open the door so that the opening notes of My Heart Will Go On start just as Marty lays eyes on him. 

This is, Mitch is pretty sure, what constitutes a _moment_. 

Marty stares at him over the boombox Mitch’s arms are already getting a little tired of holding up. 

“Mitchell,” he says over the sounds of Celine Dion telling him that near, far, wherever they are her heart will go on. Mitch pretends like the way Marty sounds saying his full name doesn’t make him want to curl up and die a little. He absolutely, definitely fully deserves it. 

“I’m sorry,” Mitch says promptly. 

Marty sighs, big and gusty, and leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed. He looks tired and unhappy and Mitch hates it kind of a lot. He wants to crack a joke and like, hug him, but he’s pretty sure he’s not allowed yet. Or possibly ever again. 

Being wrong and fucking up _sucks_. 

“Mitch,” Marty says and he even sounds tired. At least he isn’t calling Mitch _Mitchell_ this time. 

“I was an idiot and an asshole,” Mitch rushes out. His arms are starting to hurt. He hefts the boombox higher. Celine continues to assure them both that her heart will absolutely go on. 

“Where did you even get a boombox?” Marty asks. “Is this that song from Titanic?” 

Mitch restrains himself from squeaking in outrage that Marty doesn’t know this absolute classic. He’s trying to apologize here. 

“I went to like, twenty different pawn shops. Naz helped me burn the CD,” he says. “I’m trying to apologize.” 

“Yeah, I heard you,” Marty says and Mitch’s arms drop. The boombox thumps against his thighs painfully. For some reason he’s having a hard time catching his breath. He hopes he can blame the association with Titanic for how his throat is getting kind of tight and achy. 

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Mitch says quietly. The song is winding down. “It wasn’t true and I was being a dick and, yeah. I’m sorry.” 

Marty looks at him for a long time. Celine is definitely winding down and Mitch is still not having the easiest time breathing. 

“The whole thing was pretty fucked up, Marns,” he says softly. Mitch’s lungs expand at the nickname. 

“I know,” he says quickly, rushing out the words. He hefts the boombox a little for some reason. “I know, I was being so stupid and I’m so sorry and I’m going to owe you _forever_. Just, like. I’m sorry.” 

The song ends. There is a moment of silence and then a beat picks up again. 

“ _Nice to meet you, where you been?_ ” Taylor Swift asks and Mitch winces as Marty’s eyes drop to the speakers. 

“Is this Taylor Swift?” he asks, incredulous. “Is this a _playlist?_ ”

Mitch tries to hoist a winning smile. “Naz helped me,” he offers weakly. 

“ _Saw you there and I thought, oh my God, look at that face,_ Taylor Swift continues. “ _You look like my next mistake._ ” 

Marty kind of- contorts a little, and starts shaking, and it takes Mitch frankly way too fucking long to realize Marty is laughing hysterically. So hard it’s just raspy little choking noises and he’s red in the face. He stares for a moment and then kind of makes a weird little noise that feels like all the relief in his chest coming out of his lungs and sets the boombox down on the ground because his arms hurt. 

“Jesus, Mitch,” Marty gasps out. He’s so red. Mitch wants to hug him so bad. “You made me an apology playlist?” 

“It had like fifty songs, Naz made me cut a lot of them,” Mitch says and shrugs. His cheeks are hot. “I have it on Spotify though if you like… wanted a link or whatever. It’s my ‘I’m sorry I’m a huge asshole and please forgive me because you’re like, one of my best friends’ playlist.” 

Marty looks at him for a long moment. 

“You’re gonna be doing _so_ much shit for me,” he warns at last and Mitch doesn’t even attempt to stop himself for crowing in victory and throwing himself at Marty. Marty catches him anyway and swings him into a big warm hug and noogies him hard and if Mitch is sniffling a little he doesn’t say anything about it. 

“ _But I've got a blank space baby,_ ” Taylor Swift sings behind them. “ _And I'll write your name_.”

-/-

“I’m keeping the boombox,” Marty says later over kickass stir fry.

“Sure, dude,” Mitch says. 

“And the CD,” Marty says and knocks his foot against Mitch’s. Things are still fucked up and kind of weird and there’s a solid few inches of space between them that hadn’t been there before all this but if Mitch has faith in anything it’s his ability to harass people into forgetting his very few flaws. 

They’ll be okay. 

“Duh,” he grunts. “It’s yours.” 

He can’t wait for Marty to see the label he’d doodled on in Sharpie. He’d gotten a whole rainbow multipack for maximum effect.

-/-

They win because like, they can’t keep _not_ winning, they’re not the Avs or something, but still.

Everyone wants to go out but Mitch hasn’t managed to scrub out the image of Auston’s hand on the blonde’s arm yet and also he feels like sulking because he didn’t get any points in the game. He didn’t do badly or anything, but he has almost a full fifth of shitty whiskey at home and going out just seems like- work. 

He goes home and lays on his couch with a whiskey and Coke for approximately twenty minutes before he remembers that actually, being alone and sorry for himself fucking sucks. 

He digs his phone out from where it’s wedged in the couch cushions and calls Auston without really thinking about it. Auston picks up, even though he has to be on the third drink of the evening already and usually he’s dancing by now. 

He’s definitely at some kind of bar. Mitch can hear the crowd in the background, some shitty dance music, tinny and distant and unreal. Auston’s breathing is louder. 

“Yo,” Auston says because he’s a fucking tool. “‘Sup?”

“What are you wearing?” Mitch asks because it's not like Auston doesn't already think he's the most ridiculous person alive and he won't read anything into it. If Mitch is going to get laughed at for going home at six in the evening like a loser and then getting lonely, then he'd prefer it be by someone with a storied history of mocking him for his shit.

Auston doesn't disappoint. Mitch grins dopily at Auston's stupid dopey laugh. He can still make out the crowd through the phone speakers but muffled, like Auston had gone to the bathrooms of whatever bar to answer Mitch's call. 

“Bearsuit,” Auston answers. He's grinning, Mitch can tell. 

“Matts,” he laughs, “c’mon.”

“Lace panties, just- just for you baby,” Auston fires back with and like, seriously. Mitch doesn't know how he got so lucky with his friends. Doesn't know what the hell he did in a previous life to deserve Auston answering a random call in the middle of a bar to make Mitch feel better. It must have been dope as hell, whatever he did. His chest feels tight and hot for some reason. He sips at his whiskey and Coke. 

“ _Auston,_ ” he says, trying for scandalized and aroused but mostly hitting drunk and stupid he's pretty sure. Auston is still laughing at him. “Come on, oh my god, like- work with me, what are you wearing?”

“Sens jersey,” Auston says and Mitch has to squawk in horror because, um, _Ottawa?_

“I hate you,” he squeaks at Auston and means the exact opposite. 

“You love me,” Auston croons at him. He's still laughing. “You love me _so_ much, Mitchell Marner.” 

Mitch hangs up on him but he's laughing despite the way his heart is beating way too hard and it's good. It's really good.

-/-

They win Freddie a shutout and Mitch will never, ever in his whole life love anything more than hockey.

They did not fucking Leaf it an hour ago, they won on home ice, they won. And Mitch assisted on the game winner and Auston is hanging over the back of his seat because Willy called shotgun and he basically can’t _not_ crank the volume and hit play on the song of the decade. 

Eat your fucking heart out, Toronto. Mitch is cruising and Kanye is his copilot. 

Freddie is crammed in behind Willy and he’s clutching the safety handle for dear life but he’s grinning to himself a little too and Auston is shouting all the wrong lyrics in Mitch’s ear. Willy hangs out the window the entire drive to the bar and shouts the lyrics to Stronger at people walking by on the sidewalk and Mitch doesn’t think he’ll ever stop smiling, not ever.

-/-

He goes over to Auston’s place and lets himself in. Auston doesn’t even blink at him walking in without having texted or called or anything beforehand, just budges up on the couch to give him space and redoubles his efforts in the shitshow he’s making of a Fortnite match.

Mitch throws himself onto the cushion next to him and snorts elegantly when Auston is promptly blown up by a player dressed like a buff gingerbread man. 

“Fuck you,” Auston says like a total adult and throws his controller onto the coffee table to sulk. 

“You should help me throw Marty a birthday party,” Mitch says and really tries not to enjoy the way Auston chokes on his own spit and has to sit up again to cough it back out too much. He goes really red and gets some serious volume. It’s kind of beautiful. 

“Isn’t his birthday in like, May?” Auston asks. He sounds really hoarse. Mitch considers getting him a bottle of water for like, two seconds before deciding he’s really comfortable where he is and anyway it’s not like Auston is dying. 

“Yeah, dude,” Mitch says and conscientiously decides not to lecture Auston on how he should know everyone’s birthday by now. Kappy has everyone’s birthday programed into his phone calendar and ever since Mitch sneakily synced their calendars Mitch knows everyone’s birthday too. 

It’s not Mitch’s fault Auston isn’t resourceful like he is. 

“So,” Auston says slowly. “It’s, y’know, January.” 

Mitch shrugs. 

“Half-birthday,” he says easily. 

Auston is quiet for a little while, the creased expression on his face saying he’s thinking hard. Mitch regards it fondly. It looks very pained. 

“His half birthday should be in, like…” he pauses to think some more, which Mitch allows gracefully. “November? October?” 

“November sixth,” Mitch says promptly and grins when Auston cuts his eyes over. “There was a calculator thing online. Dude, help me throw a party for Marty.”

He doesn’t add that Marty still goes kind of cold on him sometimes and it hurts and like, Mitch… He’s only so good at grand gestures. He isn’t totally sure how to go about proving to Marty himself that Marty is the best thing since Auston Matthews, possibly even better than pizza with pepperoni _and_ sausage. 

Mitch just… really wants to do something good for him. Sue him. He’s a softie at heart or whatever. 

“Dude, Marner, why?” Auston says and his expression is kind of weird actually. Screwed up in confusion because he of _course_ isn’t grasping the genius of what Mitch is trying to do, but also- just, kind of stiff? Like there’s something he’s thinking about that’s really unpleasant. Which is impossible, because Marty is great and parties are great and Marty’s expression when he realizes they threw him a surprise party will be extra great. 

“C’mon,” Mitch coaxes and throws himself over to sprawl against Auston’s shoulder because he actually doesn’t like the expression on Auston’s face at all. “Dude, Auston, _Matts_. I can’t do this without you, bro, come on!” 

Auston’s face contorts again, like he’s actually trying to experience a human emotion that isn’t about hockey or beer. It evens out at a nice skeptical intrigue. 

“Fine,” he huffs. Mitch grins at him. “But it’s not his birthday or like, what? His half birthday? You’re such a freak, Marns.” 

“Two-thirds birthday,” Mitch insists. Auston shoves him over on his side on the couch with a hand on his face. 

Mitch already has the Transformers-themed plastic cups. This is gonna be fucking _great_.

-/-

He calls Marty when he’s got everything set up and the entire team barring Babs is there already, with bonus assorted significant others and best friends and whoever the fuck. He thinks Gards might have just grabbed a rando off the street. He has to call for silence before he can call, shouting at the top of his lungs and then throwing a spare puck at Kappy when he won’t stop giggling into his beer, which he shouldn’t have yet but whatever.

“Yo,” Marty answers, sounding distracted and out of breath. 

“Are you boning someone right now?” Mitch demands, scandalized, and then has to make several violent motions at Zach and Willy to get them to shut up. 

Marty squawks at him. 

“I just got off the treadmill,” he says and he doesn’t appear to have noticed anything, luckily. “You dick.” 

“Shower and come over,” Mitch orders. 

“Why,” Marty demands, just as vehement. Mitch scowls at his phone. 

“Come _over_ ,” he commands and hangs up because he knows that Marty will. 

“We have half an hour,” he announces to the room at large, at least a third of which is actually paying attention to him. “You bitches had better be fucking ready!”

-/-

Marty’s face when he opens the door and at least twenty people shout _’Happy birthday, Marty’_ at him is worth how Mitch had to force Auston to drive him to four separate party supply stores to find enough Transformers-themed cutlery to feed an entire professional hockey team plus assorted guests. It’s even worth how much he’d needed to shell out on beer, and the cake as well, because when it comes to fake birthdays Mitch is _not_ stingy.

Marty looks like Christmas came early and Santa brought him the Stanley Cup. There isn’t much Mitch wouldn’t do to put that expression on his friends’ faces. 

“It’s not my fucking birthday, Marner,” he sputters at Mitch as Mitch drags him through the door, which Mitch ignores as both irrelevant and also a potential party foul. He shoves a beer in Marty’s hand instead and starts pushing him busily towards the table that’s ostensibly for cake, although it’s been colonized by shitty six packs by now. 

“Drink up,” Mitch says and pushes at Marty’s elbow until he’s downed the entire beer and Mitch has the chance to shove another in his hands. 

“It’s _not_ my birthday,” Marty insists when he’s stopped choking on beer. Mitch pats him busily on the shoulder. 

“Just enjoy your fuckin’ party,” he advises and goes to make himself a shitty Mountain Dew margarita. He’s really gotten a taste for them lately. 

An hour later Mitch owes Brownie fifty bucks and has given up on all the margarita ingredients and thrown himself on the mercy of Naz for the latest bootleg cocktail. It’s impossibly blue and has a lemon wedge in it. It is possible he’s about to be poisoned by something Naz had called ‘probably a martini’. 

He contemplates constructing a new cocktail to call the MARTIN-i and decides he probably needs to chug some water before he trusts himself with that. 

“This is the worst,” he sighs into Auston’s shoulder. “I wanted a margarita.”

“I don’t think margaritas have vodka,” Auston mumbles against his temple. Mitch grumbles. “Pretty sure they’re tequila, Marns.” 

“No,” Mitch says and rocks them. They’re on the couch. So are Trav and Trav’s girlfriend, although they seem- well. He doesn’t think they’re gonna be hearing anything Auston and Mitch have to say, for sure. Gross. 

“Seriously,” Auston says, over-pronouncing his words in the way that means he’s been drinking steadily all afternoon and is about to tip over in about the most hilarious way ever. He turns his head so his generous forehead is against Mitch’s temple this time and Mitch thinks forlornly that he would like more vodka and more Mountain Dew to deal with the warm brush of Auston’s breathing against his pulse. “Tequila and like, uh… triple sec.” 

“Did you Google that?” Mitch asks and if he has to work to pronounce Google right then that’s between him and God. Auston sure isn’t gonna notice. 

Auston’s mouth presses against Mitch’s cheekbone and he catches his breath. 

“Sure,” Auston drawls, slow and drunk-stupid. Mitch looks away to avoid looking _at_ him and ends up gulping his gross cocktail as a distraction. It’s disgusting. He winces. 

Marty is looking at him with an unreadable expression from across the room. 

Naz and Marls are both talking to him in the most earnestly stupid way and Mitch pulls a face at him, eyes crossed and tongue out. Marty smiles at him over the rim of his Optimus Prime cup but there's still something searching about how he looks at Mitch, and then he looks past him at Auston, and, Jesus. 

There's no way for Marty to know about the _thing_ because the thing is really just not a thing, but….

Mitch downs the rest of what is heavy on the Titos and light on the blue raz Kool-Aid and is also decidedly not a martini, thank you, Naz. Despite his completely sick Bumblebee cup he feels kind of… off balance. He's sick of people looking at him with _faces_. 

He's gonna go find Zach and make him tell Mitch all about the power of imagination until he feels better. Zach's always good for it.

-/-

He digs Marty out of his guest bed, which Marty appears to be sharing with Gards, Gards’ off-the-street random, and Kappy. He leaves the other three to sleep off the party because they have the whole entire day off and instead drags a mostly comatose Marty to the breakfast bar and props him up and tries not to gloat too hard about the fact that he’d thrown up most of his drinking and then chugged two bottles of water the night before.

Marty looks kind of dead. But also, he lets Mitch burrow in under his arm and feed him a shitty coffee from Mitch’s marginally broken coffee maker and scroll through Yelp for a decent breakfast place, so. 

Mission successful, really. Marty is grinning in a vaguely pained way against his hair and it’s all fuckin’ good, dawg. 

He finds them a diner that says it probably doesn’t have salmonella and definitely does coffee, eggs, and bacon with the added bonus of being about two minutes walking distance. He makes Marty chug half a water bottle before they go and then leans against the door to his bathroom while Marty pisses, whining at the sound of Marty washing his hands and ignoring the empty beer cans scattered around his feet. 

“Come _on_ ,” he whines and then nearly falls right into Marty’s knees when Marty opens the door without warning. Just in time he rights himself and yanks Marty out into the hall and then they’re on the way to glorious breakfast. He leaves the door unlocked; there’s no way everyone will have recovered and left by the time he finally gets back. 

The diner is dingy and tacky and Marty doesn’t even seem to notice the waitress hitting on him. Mitch smiles at her in a winning way and nets them free coffee. 

It’s dope. 

Marty wakes up about halfway through the first of his stack of pancakes, which are actually pretty decent and seem unlikely to poison either of them. Mitch grins at him and Marty smiles back vaguely and chugs the rest of his coffee and life is pretty good, frankly. 

“So,” Marty says when he’s finished the last of his pancakes, because it had all actually been too good to be true. “About the glare Auston gave me when I got in the door last night.” 

“We’re not gonna talk about Matthews,” Mitch says, and means it. He does make a mental note to smack Auston for almost ruining Marty’s very special two-thirds birthday party. But still, he’s not talking about Auston. 

That lasts until he follows Marty to his apartment and then into his apartment because Mitch’s own place is still probably inundated with hungover hockey players and empty beer cans and Mitch is just really not feeling it. He’d rather lay on Marty’s relatively clean couch playing NHL13 and chugging water with him and maybe go to the gym later. 

Marty doesn’t let him do that because he is both a responsible good friend and the _worst_. 

“So,” he says, as soon as Mitch’s shoes are off and he basically can’t escape. “Auston.” 

“What about him,” Mitch says and shoves his hands in his pockets. He’s aware he’s being like the most obvious idiot in the world. It’s just… hard. 

Marty looks at him like he’s being difficult. Which, like, obviously. 

“Mitch,” he says, and he sounds… gentle. Really nice. Like this is something that’s like, a thing, instead of something that’s not a thing at all and also doesn’t really mean anything and wouldn’t mean anything even if it were a thing, which it’s not. 

“It’s not a thing,” Mitch insists, because Marty really needs to get that it isn’t. “It’s not like, you know, it’s not a _thing_.” 

“Marns,” Marty says, but not like it’s affectionate. 

More like the time Mitch had tried to explain to him that he makes ramen in the coffee maker all the time. Like Mitch is maybe operating a few players short of a regulation team. Which, people on the internet also do it so it’s almost the normal way to do it anyway

“It’s not,” Mitch says stubbornly. “Seriously, Matt.” 

Marty just kind of looks at him for a long minute. Mitch shifts uncomfortably. 

“Alright, Marner,” Marty says and _now_ he sounds like he suspects Mitch has turned into a toddler when he wasn’t looking and needs to be kept under supervision. “Explain to me why this isn’t some kind of big fucking deal.” 

“Because, like,” Mitch says and gestures with his hands in a way that he’s pretty sure was meant to mean something at some point. “Because like it’s okay if I, y’know, wanna have like- if I wanna fuck him. Because, he, it’s not like… it’s not like we could date.” 

Marty stares at him. Mitch’s chest hurts. This, he thinks angrily, is why he never thinks about the fucking _thing_ , the thing that isn’t a thing. 

“So,” he says lamely when Marty makes it obvious he’s just going to keep staring like a total non. “So it can’t be a thing, because- Because I want, and. And we can’t. He doesn’t even know. It’s fine.” 

Marty hauls in a deep breath but doesn’t say anything even though Mitch leaves him like, a whole solid-ass minute to say something in. His chest still really hurts. 

“He would probably fucking suck anyway,” he mumbles. “Like just like, in bed and in general. So it’s for the best.” 

“Mitchy,” Marty says softly and opens his arms and Mitch doesn’t even pretend he’s not tripping over himself on the way to that hug.

-/-

The world doesn't end because like, duh.

Marty gives him a look at next practice like, twice before Mitch starts slapping him with some old sweaty tape whenever Marty looks like he's about to open his mouth about the thing, and Marty decides his time is better spent chasing him down and trying to stuff the tape in Mitch's mouth. They both get given a full extra set of bag skates and Mitch throws up a little in his mouth. It puts a stop to any kind of _talking_ bullshit. 

Marty lets up, to the extent he'd been doing anything at all. Auston watches them to do the skates from the bench because he's Auston's ride home. 

All is right with the world. Mitch spits stomach acid into the shower drain and grins tiredly at the burn in his calves and thighs.

-/-

“I can drive myself places,” Auston comments idly.

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Mitch says back and tilts his head against the couch so Auston can really see him do the most epic eye roll ever. Auston’s grinning when Mitch manages to uncross his eyes.

-/-

He dispatches Willy and Auston on a snacks and beer run for the next game night and they come back with rum and no snacks because his friends are fucking _dumbasses_. He doesn't even like Bacardi; it makes him all loose and stupid.

“Coulda come with,” Willy puts in reasonably. 

“Yeah, fuck you,” is Auston's frankly brilliant addition. 

They're both drinking straight from the bottle like they think Bacardi without mixer is cool or whatever. Mitch is older and more experienced than both of them and he knows sure as shit that it absolutely is not. He's having a rum and Coke instead like a mature and experienced gentleman. 

The Coke is warm and flat because it's been hanging out, open, on the bottom shelf of Mitch's pantry for a week but it is the thought that counts. 

“I just wanted some Doritos, guys,” he laments and gulps some more warm, sticky sweet rum beverage. “Like, seriously, all I wanted. Nacho Doritos.” 

Auston rolls his eyes at him and swigs from the bottle. Call of Duty is playing dramatic music at them and none of them are holding controllers. 

“So go back to the store,” Willy says, comfortably ensconced in a nest of blankets, Bacardi, and Mitch's last microwavable burrito. “I'm not going, though. Fuck your Doritos, Mitch.”

That's how Mitch and Auston end up staggering through a January evening Toronto snow storm, slightly drunk and mostly bundled up and learning on each other to keep more or less on the sidewalk. Auston is bitching because he forgot a hat. Mitch thinks Auston should shut the fuck up, because _Mitch_ forgot his gloves. 

“My gloves,” he complains, and Auston just tilts his head back and sticks his tongue out to catch snowflakes like a total and complete loser. Mitch looks away across the street to guide them towards the store, so he doesn't accidentally think about putting his fingers in Auston's mouth again. 

The store is warmer and maybe Mitch is more drunk than he thought because Auston pulls them to a stop in the chips aisle and shakes a bag of nacho Doritos at him and smiles and Mitch is so busy not thinking about putting his fingers in Auston's mouth that he forgets not to kiss him. 

“Oh,” Auston says and puts a hand to his mouth stupidly. He's still holding the Doritos. 

“Shit,” Mitch says and takes off running.

-/-

He heads in the opposite direction from his place and there’s a really fucked up sense of déjà vu as he realizes abruptly that at least some of the warmth in his gut is coming from Bacardi and imminent barfing, instead of the churning panic. He throws himself through the doors of a slightly run-down looking McDonalds and huddles down low in the seat.

Not that… not that he thinks Auston came after him. He wouldn’t. He won’t. 

He calls the cab to Marty’s place, because at least this time he can. He’s fixed that fuck up. Jesus. He drags himself out of his self-loathing sprawl to buy himself a Mcflurry while he waits for the cab to get to him because he might as fucking well. 

Marty takes one look at him when he opens the door and lets Mitch walk right into the hug and Mitch takes the time to be really, incredibly grateful he’d fixed things with him. Because he does love Patty, he really does, but his hugs are shit compared to Marty’s. 

“I’m so fucking stupid,” Mitch says into Marty’s shoulder and Marty doesn’t make him say anything else until he’s on the couch and Marty’s dog is sniffling in his ear and there’s a glass of water he should probably get around to drinking in his hand. His mouth feels sticky and kind of sour with Mcflurry. He rubs at it compulsively with the back of his hand. 

Auston’s mouth had been warm and slack and soft. He is absolutely not thinking about it. 

“Not that I don’t like, love you and shit,” Marty says. 

“Thanks,” Mitch says automatically and gulps his water. “Love you too, man.” 

“It’s almost midnight,” Marty says and crosses his arms in an appropriately concerned way. He’s got a soft, extremely unfashionable cardigan on. Mitch suspects he’d actually been reading the book on the coffee table. There’s a painfully hip craft microbrew on the end table. “Are you okay?” 

“You’re gonna be a really great dad someday,” Mitch realizes. 

Marty’s face does something extremely complicated and then he’s falling onto the couch next to Mitch and lifting his arm automatically to let Mitch sprawl on him. He doesn’t really say anything but his arm is tight around Mitch’s shoulders. It helps. It’s a little easier to control his breathing, at least. 

“I kissed Auston,” Mitch says to where their thighs are pressed together. 

“Shit,” Marty says. 

“Yeah,” Mitch says because, yeah. Yeah, shit. _Shit_. 

“Did he say anything?” Marty asks softly and he’s not pulling away at all, he’s just there, solid and dependable. “Do anything?” 

“I ran,” Mitch says and shrugs against Marty’s shoulders and finishes his water in one long chug. He’s really not drunk anymore, not that he was. It’s been like an hour since the shitty rum and Coke and he’s pretty sure panic’s burned out whatever he hasn’t already metabolized. 

Marty sighs. 

“Okay-,” he begins, and then someone knocks aggressively on his door. 

Marty goes to check through the peephole and somehow Mitch knows before Marty even turns around, looking a little worried. 

“So,” he says slowly. “Did you… did you tell Matts you were headed here? Because he’s… here.”

-/-

Auston looks shifty as hell when Mitch steps up behind Marty and peers at him over Marty’s shoulder. He’s got his hands in his pockets and his shoulders up around his ears and his hair is falling in his face. He still doesn’t have a hat.

He doesn’t look like he’s here to punch Mitch in the face or anything, which rules out the worst of the possible outcomes Mitch has been trying not to think about. He doesn’t look very happy, either. 

“How did you know I was gonna be here?” he asks and Auston goes kind of red and doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. 

“It’s fucking Martin’s apartment,” he mutters, sounding unwilling, and Mitch would like to take exception to that tone. “Of course you were gonna come here.” 

“Auston,” Mitch starts, because Marty’s just standing there silently but he can sense the way his shoulders are starting to go tense and like, he would almost be okay with getting into a fight with Auston but Marty and Auston getting into it because of him actually makes him kind of nauseous. 

“Can we talk?” Auston asks quickly. 

Mitch blinks at him. 

“Out here,” Auston says and like, Mitch is gonna have to have some words with him about how Marty absolutely doesn’t deserve this shit, but… after. 

“Sure,” he says and goes to edge around Marty. 

Marty stops him with an arm across his stomach and he looks up to find Marty looking at him, careful and searching. He pulls together a smile and Marty spends another little bit examining him before he nods at last and lets Mitch through. 

“So,” he says when Marty’s pretended he’s closed the door and Auston’s proved he’s not about to stop pacing back and forth down the hallway like a total weirdo. “You need to stop being like a total cocknugget to Marty.” 

Auston trips on midair and spins to look at Mitch with his mouth open. 

“That isn’t what-,” he starts and then chokes some more and kind of slaps at the air like he’s trying to make a point. “No? I don’t- What?” 

“I don’t know what your issue is with him lately,” Mitch says steadily, because this part at least he feels like he has some kind of high ground on. “But it’s really uncool and if it’s because of me then- then you need to knock that shit off, because it’s uncool. He has nothing to do with my thing about you.” 

Auston somehow manages to trip without having been in motion in the first place, stumbling forward into Mitch’s space. He’s staring a little. It’s kind of unnerving. 

“I was-" Auston cuts himself off with a frustrated sound. It takes him a second to start talking again, frowning with his entire forehead. “I was jealous, Marner, you dumbfuck. You seemed really serious about making Marty happy and, y'know, I don't know.” 

“Jealous?” Mitch asks blankly. “Of Marty?” 

Auston makes a face. 

“Jealous of Marty?” Mitch repeats, because _what_. 

“Yeah,” Auston says and makes the face even harder. “You like… you’re like, like that around him.” 

“I didn't even suck Marty’s dick for real, though,” Mitch complains because he is having some _processing issues_ , and also like, seriously. He really hadn't even touched Marty's dick at all and he wishes people would lay off about it. He's already apologized. 

“You _what?_ ” Auston demands shrilly and Mitch realizes belatedly that, oh, yeah, Auston didn’t like… know about that. 

“That's not important,” he says impatiently because it’s really not. What Auston's saying, what he's implying, is starting to filter through. 

“It fucking _is_ ,” Auston says hypocritically, because- because, if this means what Mitch can’t stop thinking it might then there’s no way anything could be more important, not even Mitch’s admittedly fucking stupid decision to try to work out his own shit via Marty’s dick. Auston shuts right up when Mitch gets him by the shoulders. 

“You were jealous,” he says breathlessly. Auston blinks at him owlishly. 

“Yeah,” he snaps after a moment. “For good fucking reason apparently.” 

“Don’t be a bitch,” Mitch snaps back thoughtlessly and then shakes Auston by his shoulders. Or tries to. The dude is a fucking fridge. He kind of succeeds at rocking him a little and calls it good. “I only put my face on Marty’s dick because I like you.” 

“You- _What?_ ” Auston kind of chokes out. 

“You were jealous of Marty,” Mitch says and he can feel how wide he’s grinning. He probably looks like a crazy person and he doesn’t even care at all. “You didn’t even know I tried to suck his dick and you were jealous.” 

“Can you please stop talking about Marty’s dick and go back to talking about how you like me?” Auston demands, voice pitchy. He sounds like, a little pubescent. It’s not attractive, except how it’s Auston and Mitch is- yeah. Yeah, he has a thing. A big thing, for Auston’s everything, including his terrible cracking voice. 

“I wanna second the part about my dick,” Marty says mildly from his front door. 

They both jump. They’re still in the hall outside Marty’s apartment, Mitch realizes, and the walls are really thick here but it’s still a shared floor and- shit. 

“You like me,” Auston says and he sounds kind of dazed still. 

“I do,” Mitch agrees. He still can’t tame his grin. It’s starting to hurt his face a little. “You like _me_. Oh my god, dude.” 

Auston’s starting to grin too. 

“I do. Jesus,” he says. “Oh, fuck, this is so weird. Can I kiss you?” 

“Oh, shit, yes,” Mitch says and hopes he’s not about to pass out because he’s feeling pretty lightheaded. 

“Not in my hallway you won’t,” Marty says and throws a roll of tape at them. “I texted Willy and he’s cleared out of Mitch’s place. He says he’s taking the Bacardi. Go- talk or whatever over there. I don’t wanna know.” 

“Oh my god,” Auston says, and he’s kind of staring at Marty in a way that means Mitch is probably going to have an adult conversation with him at some point. Which is going to be later, because Mitch is gonna make out with his face so much first, and just, like? Holy _shit_. 

“Go, go,” Mitch says and starts pushing him in the direction of the stairs. “Making out, let’s go!” 

“No making out in the lobby either,” Marty calls after them like the party pooper asshole he is, but he’s smiling. Mitch can tell.


End file.
